


A Heavy Burden

by applepieisworthit



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, BotFA, Canon, OC's - Freeform, Sad, aftermath of botfa, character study of dain, mentions of thorin fili and kili's deaths, sansukh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 11:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3648021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dain II Ironfoot had never wanted the crown. It had always been his older cousin’s burden to bear. Had never wanted to be a King.</p>
<p>(This is pretty much a character study of Dain Ironfoot based on a mix between my headcanons and Determamfidd's headcanons for him)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heavy Burden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/gifts), [Scientist_Salarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scientist_Salarian/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sansûkh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/855528) by [determamfidd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/pseuds/determamfidd). 



> An angsty story this time.
> 
> For the Sansukh podfic cast.
> 
> (There is swearing in here so *WARNING* for that i suppose)

Dáin II Ironfoot had never wanted the crown, it had always been his older cousin’s burden to bear, had never wanted to be a King. Running the Iron Hills, his home, had always been enough for Dáin, he was content to be Lord of the Iron Hills and nothing more, to watch over his corner of Middle Earth and let his elders take on the well-respected abandoned Kingdoms of the Dwarves.

He had been at Azanulbizar, only thirty-two, not old enough, never old enough. No one had been. A battle of children as many now remembered it, too many lost from an already decimated people. His cousin Dwalin had been younger than him by three years, only 29. Thorin and Frerin only 53 and 48. He had watched his King be beheaded, had been there when Frerin, his golden older cousin with the lucky hair inherited from Frís, had fallen, had lost his foot to the heavy doors of Khazad-Dum, had seen a horrifying sight that he could still not explain to himself and, in the aftermath, had screamed bloody murder when they told him his parents were gone.

Dóris Greyswords, his beloved mother, the famous swordswoman and Náin, son of Grór, his father, a gnarled old, caring Dwarf. Both of them, suddenly gone, seeming invincible to their only son, and Dáin, suddenly an orphan, a Lord, a hero and an amputee, was left in charge of the Iron Hills.

Thorin, Fíli and Kíli were gone, and his army, the army of the Iron Hills, the best and most disciplined army of Middle Earth had not been enough to save them. Dáin felt responsible.

150 years later and still Dáin was being abandoned by his beloved family. The cousin, who, at 53, had suddenly become King of Durin’s folk, had taken on all the burdens Dáin was too young and buried in grief to handle. The cousin who had lost his younger brother, grandfather and father at Azanulbizar and had carried on, harder and colder, but still as imposing as ever. Dáin had never forgotten, had buried the pain of loss deep and ran the Iron Hills for his much-loved parents, had become a shell of his once happy, exuberant and boisterous self, letting Thorin carry the weight of the Dwarves’ hopes and fears on his shoulders. And now Thorin was gone, taking his sister-sons with him and Dáin was left with a Kingdom that had never been his and a people who had not followed him. But he would take it on for Thorin, for he owed him a debt he could never repay and this was one way towards it.

There was no one else. His own son, Thorin III, now called Stonehelm, was too young and Dáin would never wish such a burden on him, and the rest in line for the throne were too deep in grief for Dáin to consider ever leaving them to deal with kingship too. Balin and Dwalin, Thorin’s closest advisor and friend, and their cousins Oin and Gloin; they were all of the Company, had travelled with Thorin and his sister-sons for over a year, had fought and ate beside them and they were Dáin’s cousins too, as close as most Dwarf kin were and Dáin could never foist his own responsibility off on his family.

The dead had been removed from outside Erebor, the Elves and Men sending off their dead in their own way and the Dwarves who had given their lives in service to their King sent back to the stone and their maker, and the restoration begun. When it was just Dwarves, and the Company’s burglar, left in Erebor, and everyone had somewhere to live, then Dáin endured the coronation.

He allowed Tharkûn to place the raven crown on his head; the heavy crown that Thrór, son of Dáin I, had once worn, the last true King under the Mountain, and Dáin did not deserve this position, had not earned it, and did not want to leave his home to run a far-away Kingdom he had never lived in. He could not stand to see what this crown was already doing to his family.

His ghivashel Thira and Thorin, his inûdoy, the pressure that this position would place on them, and he could not stop it, couldn’t protect his small, cherished family from this.  
The crown was heavy as it settled on his brow, carrying the weight of a still scattered and broken people, and Dáin could barely stop himself from casting it over the edge of the walkway. Endured the cheers that echoed around the vast throne room, as the few Ereborians who had already arrived cheered for a King that was not theirs… not truly. He could tolerate the cheering coming from his own people, the Iron Hills dwarves who had stuck around to help with the restoration or were planning on staying in Erebor with their lord.  
It was painful, the first few years. Dáin was used to running the Iron Hills, but it was different, he was a skilled diplomat, he knew that, but the pressures and expectations of the King of Erebor were greater than anything he had felt since he first arrived back at the Iron Hills, fresh from war and grief-stricken. He was constantly expecting Thorin to be there every time he was addressed as King and he could see the hatred his wife held for the position.

She had told him one night, a few years into his new position, that she hated the crown. He had just removed the wretched thing from his head, his still vibrant red hair in the most elaborate braids he had ever worn to appease the fussy nobles. His back had been turned to her and she had watched as his shoulders slumped under the weight of her confession. Her chest tightened at the pain of hurting her husband but she knew she couldn’t keep her intense dislike of Dáin having the crown in any longer, and she knew that he hated it as much as she did.

When he had turned back to her the lines on his face seemed more pronounced and he looked like he had aged twenty years in a minute. Thira rose from her vanity table and crossed the grand bed chamber to her husband, the Dwarf she had loved for many years now, the Dwarf who had run off to war with her son and left her panicking in the Iron Hills, the Dwarf that she loved with her whole being, who had sent for her from his cousin’s Kingdom with the news that he was to become King. The stupid, noble Dwarf she had arrived to find physically unscathed but mentally so different from the one who left her, bowing under the pressure from nobles who could go fuck themselves as far as Thira was concerned. The Dwarf she hated seeing suffering under the demands of the stuffy and oblivious nobles.

She tells him that night all her concerns and watches as he practically deflates in front of her, her proud, stubborn husband, virtually collapsing into her arms, his stout frame wracked with deep sobs that seem wrenched from his very soul. It has been nearly six years since the battle that took his cousins and Thira knows that he hasn’t cried since their deaths. So she holds him close, her husband who used to be so open with her, ruined by the pressures of Kingship, stoically sacrificing everything that makes him hers and hiding his pain behind jokes and clever retorts that cover the deep set cracks in the once carefree Dwarf.

She hates this. What being King and Crown Prince had done to her son and husband. Her husband is more ready to deal with the related pressure, but over the last six years she has watched as her beautiful son has become harder and less sure of himself. The lively young Dwarrow from the Iron Hills who took what life threw at him and laughed happily has become unsure and desperate for approval. Doubting his worth and questioning decisions that came easy to him in his homeland. 

But she loves Dáin with her whole heart, as much as he loves her, so she stands by him and he understands her hatred for the limelight and doesn’t protest when she rarely shows her face in public. He loathes what the crown has done to their family as much as her so he doesn’t begrudge her not showing her face, however much the stuffy nobles may bother him about it. 

Dáin’s inability to show any weakness to his subjects in Erebor aggravates Thira more than she is willing to admit, in the Iron Hills he could remove his iron foot in the middle of a council meeting prop his stump up on a stool, lean back in his chair and watch as his advisors bicker between themselves. Thira almost throws a temper tantrum the first time she sees him rubbing at the old wound surreptitiously under the table before leaving the foot attached and turning his attention back to the Ereborian nobles who understand nothing about her husband. She notices the other Iron Hills nobles and advisors at the table wince when they notice their King’s discomfort, but no one says anything and after when she is in their rooms alone Thira can’t stop herself from collapsing in gut wrenching sobs on the bed. It is not the first time and it will not be the last time that she curses Thorin Oakenshield and Mahal for how her life has turned out and what her husband has had to become to please everyone but himself. 

Dáin watches disconsolately as his inûdoy becomes more and more closed off. He knows that Thorin has never properly experienced the politics of being from the Line of Durin and this abrupt introduction upsets Dáin more than he thought it would. 

Dáin despises that the Stonehelm is suddenly realising that he is not just his Adad – to every other Dwarf Dáin is not just Dáin, he is a hero and veteran of Azanulbizar and the Battle of the Five Armies, the Lord of the Iron Hills and the King under the Mountain. He doesn’t see himself as a legend and he never wanted his son to either. Dáin had tried so hard to emphasise to his son that just because they are noble by blood does not make them special or immune to the mistakes of other Dwarves. In just six years he has seen Thorin’s beliefs being slashed and broken by puffed up nobles trying to suck up to the future King of Erebor and he has tried to diffuse most of the lies that they are telling his son but he knows that the more they say to Thorin the more they break his confidence.

He knows that Thorin doubts himself even more now that he knows how his father is perceived, the last three Kings to wear the crown have been great heroes of Dwarven history and Thorin does not see himself like that. Dáin is so proud of his son and wishes he could see himself how Dáin sees him. So he builds his confidence, gives him responsibilities and lets him become the proud Dwarf that he was born to be, looking so much like his namesake, on purpose and by birth, that sometimes Dáin’s chest hurts to look at him, remembering the older cousin he had adored and worshipped and the paralysing pain of losing him to the son of the Orc that killed Thrór.

It gets better, being the King of Erebor, when Dís arrives and they share their pain, when he discovers that really he does not have to alter himself to please the stuck up nobles that no one cares about, when he finally settles into the role he never wanted.

And then Balin comes to him wanting to take back Khazad-Dum, the very place where so many Dwarves gave their lives for King Thrór nearly 110 years ago, the thorn in the side of a once again prospering people. The accursed place where his beloved parents, Náin and Dóris were lost, where Fundin, Thrór, Frerin and countless others gave their lives, where Thráin disappeared. And Dáin doesn’t understand, Balin lost his parents there too, his King, his kin, and how can he want to try again, just when things are getting better. It has been only 48 years since the Battle of the Five Armies, not long enough to even think of taking back somewhere else, never long enough to think of taking back Durin’s lost Kingdom. The doomed place where Dwarves die again and again. So he forbids it, tells Balin not to go. But he does.

They take it back, and for a scant five years the Kingdoms of the Dwarves prosper.

Then the letters trickle to less and less.

Then they stop, and Dáin suspects.

When it has been another five years Dáin stops kidding himself and breaks down in his wife’s arms again. Another cousin, lost to a fool’s dream and Dáin is left alone even more, knowing that it can’t last, this peace Erebor is experiencing so he starts building up the armies again, subtly and not enough for many to notice but when the rider from Mordor appears outside Erebor 18 years later they are so much better off than anyone bar Orla realises. 

Dáin’s paranoia has paid off and even though he knows he should feel glad that he was perceptive enough to suspect, he hates that there was ever any reason for Dwarves to feel such paranoia over happiness. When he dies, he dies knowing he has left his cousin’s Kingdom – for it was never his, however long he was King for – in the capable hands of his inûdoy. He also dies hating the Line of Durin and the fate that has led to the deaths of so many of his kin over the last 150 years.

**Author's Note:**

> So... are you crying? If so... #SORRYNOTSORRY
> 
> Khuzdul (courtesy of Determamfidd and Sansukh):  
> ghivashel - treasure of all treasures  
> inûdoy - son  
> adad - father


End file.
